


build me a city and call it jerusalem

by starsandgutters



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 2020 is the wildest year I swear, ANDREW DABB YOU BETTER NOT DO US DIRTY, Coda, Coming Out, EVERYTHING CHANGES TONIGHT, Fuck John Winchester tbh, Grieving Dean Winchester, Internalized Biphobia, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Pining, anyway, canon-compliant up to 15x19, not me writing spn fic the day the finale comes out after missing 3 seasons, so much pining, the MCD is temporary as far as I'm concerned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-19
Updated: 2020-11-19
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:49:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27632317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starsandgutters/pseuds/starsandgutters
Summary: They win.The heroes save the day, and ride off into the literal sunset on their metaphorical horses.They win. They win. They win.Then why does Dean feel like he’s lost everything?A coda to 15x19, featuring Dean coming to terms with a few truths he's known all along.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester, Eileen Leahy/Sam Winchester
Comments: 13
Kudos: 202
Collections: The Destiel Self-Rec Favs Collection





	build me a city and call it jerusalem

**Author's Note:**

> Me? Writing Supernatural fic in the year of our Lord 2020, after missing 3 seasons, on literally the day the series finale is going to air?? More likely than you think!!!
> 
> Seriously, this was written more as a way for me to cope with my feelings, because I'm TERRIFIED about the finale but also more hopeful than I've been in YEARS which makes me even MORE terrified and-- you get the idea.
> 
> I don't know if Cas will come back and/or if Dean will reciprocate; but even more so than on-screen destiel, what I want the show to give us is some acknowledgment of Dean's clearly coded bisexuality. Because that would be like releasing a breath I've been holding for 15 years.

_You said I could have anything I wanted, but I_

_just couldn’t say it out loud._

*

They win.

They win the battle. Life, restored to Earth, just like that, as if it never stopped. As if only a few hours ago, a stray dog didn’t seem like a miracle, a beacon of hope in a world gone empty. All that grief, all that loss – it only exists in their heads now. Life is back. They’ve won the battle.

And they’ve won the war – the war against _God himself,_ and damn if it isn’t a mindfuck just to say it – just to think it. A war that had been going on before they were even born, a war they were supposed to both start and end, but not on their terms, never on their terms. Destiny versus agency. Fate versus choice. Duty versus love.

But against all hope, against all common sense, against everyone who’s ever bet on the other guy, well — they’ve won the war: they’ve won their free will back. Their lives are theirs again, only theirs, to do as they wish with.

They win.

The heroes save the day, and ride off into the literal sunset on their metaphorical horses.

They win. They win. They win.

Then why does Dean feel like he’s lost everything?

*

They don’t know where they’re going, really; it’s been forever since they’ve _not_ had a mission, since they’ve been able to just _go._ And so they go.

It’s temporary, this feeling of freedom, of intoxicating _possibility_ , giddy and restless with the sensation of being unmoored, unfettered, unafraid. They both know this, so they enjoy it in silence.

As endless as it feels right now, it won’t last. The first thing Sam did after Jack left was call Eileen, and the smile on his face when she picked up was so bright, Dean damn near wanted to cry. He tells himself he’s just happy for Sam (he is); he tells himself he’s just relieved their friend’s alive (he is). He definitely doesn’t think about how there’s no one for him to call, not anymore, not anymore.

*

They’re driving past a corn field when Sam speaks up.

“You know, it’s stupid, but I almost thought – when Jack brought everyone back, I thought…”

Dean grunts. “Doesn’t work like that. Cas wasn’t snapped by Chuck. He— _chose_ to go to the empty.” His voice hitches on the word. He pretends not to notice. Sam does too. Smart kid.

“I know. It’s silly. But you know, I guess I just— I just _hoped_.”

“Big mistake, Sammy. Big mistake,” Dean admonishes, only bitter enough to still just barely qualify as a joke. But he’d hoped too, and when nothing happened, he felt it like an ice pick between his ribs.

*

They stop at a hotel, for a change. Separate rooms, for once. Fluffy beds. Good shower pressure. They deserve it, damn it. (So why does he feel like he doesn’t?).

They get takeout, the fancy kind, or at least the kind that still tastes good and somewhat home-cooked while clogging your arteries. They shoot the shit as they work their way through a stash of cold ones. Sam’s still a lightweight; there’s laughter and there’s memories and there’s hope. For an evening, Dean feels at peace.

Then Sam goes to his room and suddenly everything tilts on its axis, just enough to make Dean feel seasick. The room is too dark, too bright. Too stuffy, too chilly – is that a draft? It’s too _small,_ small enough he feels like he can’t breathe right, like the walls are closing in on him— but at the same time, it feels too empty.

Too _empty._

Suddenly, violently, Dean feels he’s going to cry, but he won’t allow himself to, he _can’t_ , because they’ve _won_ , goddamnit, and why can’t he just be happy about it, why can’t they ever just be _happy_ —

He drives to the nearest liquor store and buys a bottle of hennessy. Back in his room, he considers pouring one out for Cas. _To absent friends,_ no, that’s not right, _to fallen comrades_ — they all taste like bitter lies on his tongue. He knows what Cas was to him. He may never have spoken the words, but he _knows._ And now, he knows what he was to Cas, too. Castiel was always the braver one between them.

Dean doesn’t pour one out for him, but he does drink himself numb before oblivion mercifully takes over.

*

The next morning, Sam looks at him strangely over breakfast – bacon and eggs whose smell is definitely _not_ making Dean nauseous, he just needs more coffee to wash them down, thanks very much.

“Party hard last night?” he taunts.

Dean grunts, flips him off. Sam just gives him a _look_ , and Dean doesn’t like it one bit. The kid’s _too_ smart for his own good. Always was.

*

Sure fucking enough, it’s not even half a day later that Sam corners him – metaphorically, since they’re just both in the car seat, but Dean has no escape short of throwing himself out. Or crashing into a tree. He hasn’t decided yet.

“So… what went down with Cas, really?”

Dean swallows. He can feel the bile rising in his throat a little, and he’s not sure if it’s the question or just his hangover.

“I told you. He’d made a deal with the Empty. Decided it was time for the Empty to collect. He summoned it hoping that it would take Billie too, and it did. He saved me.” _Again_ , Dean thinks and doesn’t say. What’s the point of keeping score when it seems all they ever do is try to save each other? ( _Then why do you fail so often?,_ a voice whispers in his head. He grips the wheel harder.)

“Yeah, okay, but… there’s clearly something you’re not telling me. I can tell. Every other time, you’d be searching for a way to bring him back. Why are you so convinced this time it’s final? It’s not like Cas hasn’t cheated death before.”

Sam means well, because he always does, but every word is a knife twisting in Dean’s gut, because all he _wants_ is a way to bring Cas back. It makes his answer shorter, angrier. “Because he fucking gave me a whole— a whole goodbye _speech_ , okay, Sam? Why would he do that if this wasn’t the real deal? If he didn’t know that he—” he swallows the bile down, licks his chapped lips, shakes his head.

He can’t do this. He can’t talk about Cas. He’ll actually lose his mind.

Unfortunately, grief has made him stupid, it seems, because he’s said the one thing sure to perk Sam’s interest, like a laser pointer to a cat.

“Huh, okay, a goodbye speech? What’d he say?” Sam’s looking at him intently, zeroed in on him like _he’s_ the damn laser pointer. Dean keeps his eyes on the road for a change— a convenient excuse. He can feel his jaw tightening; he can tell Sam notices.

“Nothing,” he lies, feeling dirty from it. Then, because that’s an incredibly obvious lie even for him, he corrects himself: “Nothing that would matter to you.” It’s true enough, he thinks. Cas was both of their best friend, but his last words were all for Dean, only for Dean.

_A more profound bond._

Fuck. He is actually going to crash the car into a tree. It would hurt less.

But he can’t do that to Sammy, so he just white-knuckles the wheel, forces himself not to push down on the pedal.

“I’m sorry, you think our friend’s _last words_ are of no interest to me?! I have a right to know, Dean.”

“No, you _really_ don’t,” Dean barks back before he can stop himself. _Shit._

It’s true, though. As selfish as it is, he wants to keep Cas’s last words to himself. Hold them close to his heart, for the bad days— the worse days— when he thinks he’s broken and wrong and worthless. Disposable. Unlovable.

He could never deny Sam anything, though. Especially when he’s got that kicked puppy look that should really be ridiculous on a grown man’s face.

They’re silent for a while. Sam is looking at the road too, clearly having figured out this isn’t something he can win by being pushy, that Dean’s exposed wounds are just too tender to be poked right now.

“You really want to know?”

“I’d like to.” Quiet words, eyes darting towards him as inconspicuously as possible while trapped in a car together.

“Fine. But I just—” Dean shakes his head. Where does he even start? Suddenly, he feels like he’s so small, like he’s 12 and looking for his father’s approval again, instead of 40 and a veteran savior of the world. He’s afraid Sam will laugh. He’s afraid he will cry. He’s afraid he’ll cry and _then_ Sam will laugh. He has no reason to think that – no reason to assume cruelty from Sam – just the ever-pervasive fear of not being strong enough, steady enough, enough of a man.

Fuck it. He’s too tired, he’s just too tired to put up a front right now.

“He told me he loved me.” He says it quietly, so quietly, like the words might dissipate in the sun if he lets them out of his mouth. Cas said more than that, so much more— but Dean is bad with words, and that’s what it boils down to, really, isn’t it? That’s what it _all_ boils down to.

Sam blinks, slowly, like he’s not sure how to interpret Dean’s words. “That’s it?”

 _That’s it?_ Dean thinks— and then, because he’s just too astonished, he snarls: “…’That’s it’? The hell you mean, ‘that’s it’?!”. The words had been _monumental_ to Dean— earth-shattering, life-changing; a revelation he can never unsee or unhear, even if he wanted to (he doesn’t). As worried as he was about Sam making a big deal out of this, him trivialising it is _worse._

“Well, he’s said it before, hasn’t he? That he loved you, loved us?” Sam replies, unsettled by Dean’s lashing out.

_Not like that. Not like that. I didn’t know, I didn’t know, I didn’t know._

(Or maybe he did know, and simply refused to let himself believe it, because how could someone like Cas want someone like him? How could Dean ever be worthy of it, accept that love without making it ugly, without breaking it beyond repair?)

He can’t make himself speak. He takes his eyes off the road, now — safe enough, nothing but fields and sunlight all around them — and looks at Sam. He can’t say it. He can’t explain. Sam will just have to solve that puzzle himself, read it in the undone lines of his face.

Sam does.

“Oh,” he says. “ _Oh._ ” And there it is: the penny dropping. That pursing of the lips, the frown lines, the small intake of breath that means he’s figured it out. Still the smart kid after all.

“Yeah,” Dean nods, looking back at the road. “’Oh’.”

Sam nods too, sitting with it for a second. “Okay. Well, how do you feel about it?”

Dean hits the brakes. He can’t do this _and_ drive. He really is going to crash them into a ditch.

“Now hang on a damn minute. ‘Okay’? Just… okay? You’re just taking this in stride? You’re not even a _little_ bit surprised?” His voice is louder than strictly necessary, but he’s not angry, not exactly, he’s just — unravelling. He needs to know that this is as momentous as it feels to him, that there’s a reason for his shaking hands and his faltering heart. That he’s not just making all this up.

Sam seems mildly alarmed at how upset he is, like he’s searching for the correct response to defuse him (and boy, does Dean wish he knew what that was). “Well— I mean— I’m surprised he _told_ you?”

It’s Dean’s turn to blink and take the words in. If nothing else, Sam _has_ defused him, because he feels a little stunned, like he’s been hit over the head.

“I— you’re surprised he _told_ me. What d’you— wait— you _knew_?” Dean knows he sounds betrayed, and knows how stupid that is, that he apparently was relying on Sam to tell him things about his own emotional life, but hey, he’s never been the sharpest tool in the shed.

Sam gives him a look like he agrees with that assessment, but it’s also full of sympathy. Dean’s not sure if it takes the sting out or makes it worse. “Well, I mean, Dean, c’mon. He wasn’t exactly _subtle_ about it.”

Dean supposes that’s true. He supposes that the truth was there for everyone to see all along — all those years, all those taunting remarks from heaven and hell and everything in between ( _Castiel… he likes you — the one in the dirty trenchcoat who’s in love with you? — go ask him, he was your boyfriend first — as soon as Castiel laid a hand on you in hell, he was lost! — he sounds helpful and… dreamy? — don’t lose it all over one man— I’m going to cut out your human weakness—);_ all the loyalty, the companionship, the self-sacrifice, the endless support and forgiveness — ( _we had an appointment — we’re making it up as we go — I did this for you, Dean, I did this because of you — I’ll go with you — you changed me — I love you—_ ).

The writing was on the wall all along, and Dean was too mired in his own self-loathing to see it, to ever let himself consider it. Because he’s stupid. Because he’s a coward. Because he doesn’t deserve good things—

_Good things do happen, Dean._

_You don’t think you deserve to be saved?_

He doesn’t. He didn’t. But Cas did. Cas always, always did. And he did save Dean, over and over again, in so many different ways; in all the ways that mattered.

He takes a breath, deep and shaky and not carrying enough oxygen as it should.

“I guess so. I just didn’t— I couldn’t—” he shakes his head, and Sam nods.

“Well… how do you feel about it now?” He asks, cautiously.

Dean bites down on his lip, hard enough to hurt, hard enough that he can focus on the pain instead of the hot stinging behind his eyes. He can’t do this. He can’t. He can’t tell Sam how he feels, couldn’t tell Cas how he felt, and he doesn’t know _why_ , doesn’t know what’s so wrong with him that he can never just say what’s in his heart without being so damn _scared._

It’s too much, all this _feeling_ , too much to hold in his heart: he feels like saying it would either collapse his lungs or set them free, and he doesn’t trust his odds enough to risk it.

“Sammy, I can’t. I just—” he’s shaking his head and gripping the wheel again and it’s a wonder he gets any words out, from how tightly his jaw is clenched, and Sam gets it, because he knows him, because nobody knows him _better_ , and he just pats his shoulder a little, trying to soothe, to reassure.

“It’s okay, Dean. It’s okay. You don’t have to talk about it. We can just drive some more.”

Dean nods, the motion choppy and stilted. He can do this, drive, follow the road, put his heart on autopilot, ignore the road signs. He’s good at that part. They drive.

*

That night, in his motel room, Dean stares at the half-empty bottle of liquor.

_What are you so afraid of?_

He thinks back on his life. All the people he’s known and loved. The people he’s saved, the people he couldn’t.

He thinks about his best friend – his _other_ best friend – the smartest person he knew beyond Sam. A smart woman, a kind woman, a brave woman. A woman who loved other women. Was there ever anything wrong with that? Of course not. He hadn’t thought so, not even for a _second._

 _It’s different for girls,_ a voice comes to him, unbidden. It’s a voice he can’t place, and it sounds like a mix of his father, scolding him, of the older boy on the wrestling team that Dean desperately looked up to, of Alastair reminding him of all the _wrong_ things about him.

He thinks about Cesar and Jesse Cuevas, retired together somewhere in New Mexico. Strong. Sure. _Happy._ And was there anything wrong with _that_?

He thinks about Castiel – of course, of course he does — who wasn’t really ever a man or a woman to begin with, Castiel to whom gender and orientation were, by his own statement, irrelevant; it would be easy to tell himself that Cas is an _exception_ , that he’s not breaking the rules (what _rules_ , anyway?) — not really, just bending them a little, but—

But he knows that’s a lie. Dean Winchester knew nothing of angels when he met Castiel, knew nothing of vessels. By his reckoning, Castiel was just a guy when they met, and slowly but surely, Castiel had become ever more human, ever more tangible, less of a multidimensional wavelength of celestial intent and more of… Cas _._ His vessel stopped being just a vessel — the meatsuit that used to be Jimmy Novak — and became part of him, the place that his grace called home. Became _him_.

Dean could tell himself he just fell in love with a genderless beam of light, with the _essence_ of Cas, but he knows that’s only a fragment of the truth. He fell in love with an angel, yes— but he also fell in love with a man; he fell in love with his best friend; he fell in love with _Cas,_ and everything that he is— _was_ —

Tears are burning behind his eyes again, and Sam isn’t here, so he allows some to spill over, shakily wipes them off.

He thinks about the past again. The people he’s kissed, the people he hasn’t, the people he _could_ ’ve. He thinks about the curve of Cassie’s lips, and the pulsing lights of nightclubs he was never supposed to be caught dead in. He thinks about Anna’s red hair, and about Aaron’s chocolate eyes. He thinks about shame, and lies, and a father’s hard stare. He tries to remember why it matters — why he should still be trying to win the approval of a man who’s long dead, a man who was too consumed by revenge to really ever _see_ his children growing up, who tried his best but came up inevitably, tragically short.

Dean is so tired, _so goddamn tired,_ of not feeling good enough.

There had been no shame in Cas’s confession. Only joy, only relief. _Happiness isn’t in the having, it’s in just being. It’s in just saying it._

Dean isn’t sure about happiness, not with the gaping, jagged hole in his chest that screams Castiel’s name incessantly. But he thinks maybe he can gamble on relief, at least. On something like peace.

_(There’ll be peace when you are done—)_

He takes a long, hard swig of the bottle, then almost goes to dump it into the sink; remembers he paid good money for it, and puts it back in his bag. He doesn’t touch it again, though. Right now, weirdly, he doesn’t need to.

_(—Lay your weary head to rest— )_

He goes to bed. Tomorrow the long road home begins, and he could use the shut-eye. He thinks that maybe he has work to do after all. That it’s not the end of the road, not yet.

_(—Don’t you cry no more._

But classic rock doesn’t have all the answers, and if his pillow isn’t quite dry by the time he falls asleep, then that’s between him and Kansas).

*

The following morning, he meets Sam for breakfast bleary-eyed but clear-headed. They’re headed towards Eileen, maybe towards a case — but only after Sam and Eileen have a few days to themselves.

Dean can’t begrudge them that, nor does he. Happiness is so rare in their line of work, and those that find it, well, they better cling to it with all their might. It’s his own problem— his own regret— that he didn’t follow that advice.

Sam takes one look at his weary face and offers to drive. Dean doesn’t need him to, but he lets him anyway. He’s tired of carrying everything himself, his shoulders sinking with the weight, his chest crushed from all the emotions he’s never allowed himself to put into words, because emotions are soft spots, and softness is weakness, and weakness is badness.

Dean’s always had so much _emotion_ , more than he ever knew what to do with. He doesn’t think it makes him weak anymore. He thinks maybe it’s the other way around. After all, the strongest person he ever knew, the bravest person he ever knew, died with emotion painted all over his face. The sadness, the happiness, the love: all of it. And he’d _thanked_ Dean for it, for teaching him how to care.

_I care about the whole world, because of you. You changed me, Dean._

_I love you._

The least Dean can do is try to return the favour. Because Cas has changed him, too; made him softer, made him braver, somehow all at the same time. All that was ever left to do was for Dean to finally admit it.

They’re driving towards home when he finally says it, his eyes trained on the resplendent green shooting by outside his window.

“I loved him too.”

Sam immediately turns to him, and that’s probably bad for road safety, but that feels irrelevant at this point.

Dean meets his eyes. “I did,” he repeats for good measure. Then corrects himself: “I do.”

Sam looks very solemn and a little sad, and just nods a little. “I know.”

Dean would laugh, if his heart didn’t feel so tight in his chest. All his deepest secrets laid bare – and of _course_ Sam already knows.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I mean, Dean… I’ve known for a long time.”

Dean’s heart skips a beat or two. “About Cas?”

Sam slows the car down, rolling to a halt by the side of the road, giving Dean his full attention. “About _you._ ”

And that could mean anything, but Dean knows exactly what it means – that it’s Cas, yeah, but it’s not just about Cas. It’s about all those years before him: the shame and the secrets; the lies and the guilt.

“Oh,” Dean says, blinking a little. His hands are restless in his lap.

“Dean. You know that doesn’t change anything, do you?”

Dean feels like he should. He’s not sure he does, though, not really.

“Well, it doesn’t. You’re my big brother. There is no one – _no one_ – in this world that I look up to more than you. That’s always been true. It always will be.”

And damn it, Dean was _not_ going to cry, but how can he hold it together when Sam is _like that_ — he swallows, unclenches his hands. His cheeks are still dry, but it’s touch and go, really. _If it keeps on raining, levee’s gonna break,_ and all that good stuff.

“You know,” he says, carefully, “it wasn’t a lie. All the other things. The girls, the—” he waves helplessly. “Lisa.” He doesn’t know why it matters to him to point it out – the cat’s out the bag, Sammy knows he likes men, and the world is still turning — and there’s only one person in the whole world that he wants right now. But it _does_ matter _._ Dean’s spent so long, so damn long denying a part of himself, he doesn’t want to start denying the other now. He thinks he owes it to Lisa’s memory, at least; to a woman he really loved, a good woman, who loved him back, and who could have made him happy if he’d been anyone else; anyone but Dean Winchester, the Michael Sword, made for battle and defying destiny rather than a white picket fence life.

(He remembers, too, how Castiel went out of his way to let him live that quiet life, making the worst choices and mistakes just to keep Dean out of harm’s way — did he love him then? Had he always?)

“I know,” Sam says, like it’s so easy, like Dean hasn’t struggled his whole damn life to understand it. Man, he really _is_ the smarter one. Or maybe, Dean realises in a moment of uncharacteristic self-compassion, it’s just that he actually got to live life for those few years at Stanford, while Dean was busy turning himself into his father’s weapon.

“Dean… You _do_ know it’s possible to like both, right?”

Dean does. In theory. It just never seemed like a real thing before. He’s never heard anyone talk about it except in derogatory terms. But that’s no reason for Sam’s benevolent and near-pitying expression. _Once a know-it-all, always a know-it-all._ “Oh, you think?” he snarks back, with a fake eager smile.

And okay, maybe Sam’s more nervous than Dean initially assumed, because the mocking goes _completely_ over his head in his hurry to explain this in Dean-friendly terms.

“Well, yes! It’s like, some people like maple syrup on their pancakes, and some people like bacon, and then there are people who like both. Like _you_ ,” He concludes, gesturing expansively at Dean, very proud of his metaphor until he notices Dean’s death glare.

Dean watches him deflate a little, realizing the well-intentioned error of his ways with every second, before he takes pity on him.

“Because I respect you too much, I’m gonna pretend that whole sentence didn’t just come out of your mouth,” he says, but there’s a smile in the words, and it breaks the awkwardness.

“Oh, fuck _you_ ,” Sam huffs back with a grin, and just like that, the tension’s gone. Well, mostly, anyway.

“Dean?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks for telling me.” God, he’s so _earnest._

“Yeah. Well. Don’t make a big deal out of it.” It would be more believable if Dean hadn’t noticeably sniffled halfway through the sentence — or if it wasn’t so painfully obviously a big deal.

Sam starts up the Impala again. There are storm clouds gathering on the horizon, but not the ominous, supernatural kind. Just a storm. Just rain. Dean thinks about Castiel — he always is, these days — and about how he used to smell of ozone and electricity, how he still did a little, under the scent of book dust and gunpowder, of their laundry detergent and Dean’s shampoo.

“I’m going to get him back.”

He hadn’t planned on saying the words, hadn’t even known he was thinking them – but the moment they leave his mouth, he knows they were inevitable from the start. Maybe in every other universe their paths never crossed, in every other universe Castiel walked away from them; but in _this_ universe, there isn’t a single chance Dean would just give up on Cas.

Sam just nods, like he, too, knew this was coming.

“I’ll help you.”

“I don’t even know if it can be done. It’s a long shot, Sammy, maybe the longest. You’ve got Eileen. Maybe you shouldn’t—”

“Don’t be an idiot,” Sam cuts him off, staring him down. “It’s _Cas._ Of course I’ll help. Whatever you need me to do. I’ve got your back.”

Dean knows it’s the truth. He looks out for Sammy; Sammy looks out for him. They’re not alone in this – never alone – but that doesn’t mean it has to be just the two of them, either. It’s all suddenly so simple; as surprisingly easy as letting Sam drive, for once.

The Impala rolls along, towards the storm, but the sun is still shining, a corner of blue sky refusing to concede. The weather is restless like Dean’s heart.

“Sam,” he starts, “I don’t know what I’m gonna do if…”

 _If we can’t get him back,_ he almost says, but stops himself, because that’s too much to consider, too painful to wrap his head around. Somehow, over the course of a decade, Castiel has carved a space for himself in Dean’s life that will forever be shaped like him, and Dean doesn’t know how to be whole anymore without him there.

But he’s not going to think about that, not right now; he’s not going to give up before they’ve even started. They’re Winchesters: fighting is what they _do._

Instead, he allows himself to consider the other option: the one that’s infinitely better, but somehow just as terrifying.

“I don’t know what I’m gonna do after we get him back.”

It’s one thing to be open with Sam, whom he’s known his entire life — and even that seemed impossible until just yesterday. It’s another thing entirely to open up to Castiel — Castiel who’s seen him at his absolute worst and still come back for him, Castiel who keeps laying down his life for him, but also Castiel who keeps _leaving_ , and Dean knows it’s not his fault, not really, but it still destroys him a little every time Cas disappears, taking a piece of his soul with him; if Dean pours his heart out to him just to be left behind again, he doesn’t think he could stand it.

When Castiel had said he loved him, it had felt like a blessing, like absolution, like rebirth. Like for once, he could be something _more_ : not Dean Winchester the killer, the fuck-up, the mindless weapon; instead, Dean who was worth knowing, who was worth loving. It had felt like salvation.

But Dean’s never been a man of faith, only ever trusted what he could touch, and without Castiel there to have hope for both of them, a lifetime of self-doubt hangs heavy over him. What if Dean misunderstood, what if Cas doesn’t want him anymore, what if he sees how ordinary and flawed Dean really is, what if he decides he’s tired of gambling everything on one human, if, if, if—

He closes his eyes for a moment against the barrage of thoughts that threaten to make panic rise up his throat. To his left, Sam looks serious, poised, thoughtful. Dean is so proud of the man he raised.

“Well, Dean,” Sam says, eventually, “you’ll just have to do what you do best.” He turns to look at him, and for once, Dean finds he doesn’t mind being seen.

“You be brave.”

 _Brave._ Yes, Dean thinks. That, he can probably do.

He smiles as Sam floors the pedal, and they’re going, going, gone, driving into the storm one more time, towards the rest of their lives, and the people they’ve chosen to spend it with.

*

_Dear Forgiveness, you know that recently_

_we have had our difficulties and there are many things_

_I want to ask you._

_[…]_

_I want more applesauce. I want more seats reserved for heroes._

_Dear Forgiveness, I saved a plate for you._

_Quit milling around the yard and come inside._

**Author's Note:**

> You know that Fleabag quote that's like “I think you know how to love better than any of us -- that’s why you find it all so painful”? Yeah. I think that's our Deano.
> 
> The title and the poetry lines at the start and the end are all taken from Richard Siken's poem _Litany in Which Certain Things Are Crossed Out_. (If you're a Supernatural fan and haven't read _Crush_ , do yourself a favour and devour it immediately, because I've been going insane over it for YEARS.)
> 
> I hope you've enjoyed this, and if you did, come say hi on [Tumblr](https://blackmagicadam.tumblr.com) or [Twitter](https://twitter.com/bisexualmage)!! IT ALL ENDS TONIGHT AND I'M A DAMN MESS ;___;


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